The Ghost Between Us
by JoanyChan
Summary: She lost her smile; he lost his limbs. She can't forgive; he can't remember. They thought they lost had lost everything that day, but then she saw the light in his eyes and he saw the gold of her hair. Perhaps they just could reach for each other and overcome their ghosts...EdWin. AU
1. Solar Eclipse

**Solar Eclipse**

It all comes down to this bright light. The alarmed screams in the distance, the whistle of engines, and the iron railings trembling beneath his feet as if it were the end of the world—all condensed into a flooding white.

How ironic. The whole world has been a stormy gray crushing his shoulders until now, as he stands before a death barreling towards him at 95 miles per hour. Now, he can see some light, an intruding one in which a thousand shafts of fiery white sliced him into a million pieces, leaving his ugly sin bare.

So he is right. There is only light for him in death. And then after that, he expects a insurmountable barrenness. An eternity of not even fire or blood—just the simple Hell of pitch, black, nothingness.

So let it be that he will never see the sun. There is no happiness left for him. He welcomes that tremendous force, waits to be cast into absolute darkness. A darkness in which warmth is a nonexistent stranger, light a forbidden exile. A darkness that is everlasting. A darkness he deserves.

So let it be that he will never see the sun.

* * *

The sunshine tint in her blonde hair glows against the grey dawn in the window. She sits absentmindedly on the sill, with an arm casually propped on a knee and eyes staring at the smoke clouds rising ominously in the distance.

It is never silent in this small town hospital; a few miles ahead lies the demilitarized zone separating the country of Amestris and the country of Ishbal, which recently gained its independence from the former after what seemed to be an endless war. Before the old, faceless men in the central city decided that throwing their young men into a mayhem of bullet rains and grenade storms was no longer profitable, the zone used to be a major battlefield for the war none of Amestrian locals really knew was about. All the residents knew was that each year, a mother rushed out into the street, holding a letter and tearing at her hair while shrieking the name of a husband or child. The hospital here knew a bit more—it knew every sickening laceration, gut-wrenching wound that a human body could possibly endure.

Regardless of its official name, all of the townspeople of Resembool never call it the zone "demilitarized". Because the border was heavily armed with bitter Amestrians, nervous Ishbalans, and hundreds of machine guns, the people of Resembool still call it a battlefield.

Today she can hear the faint popping of firearms in the distance. Undoubtedly, there will be more men on stretchers being rushed in today due to failed attempts at avenging loved ones whose war sacrifices resulted in defeat. So in reality, the war has never really ended for this hospital, whose workers have the daily task of picking up pieces of human sorrows and broken hearts.

But this smoke gray dawn, the electrocardiogram beeps incessantly from the double doors at the end of the hall, drowning out the hum of fluorescent lights as it has been since midnight.

Finally, the emergency room sign fades from an urgent red to a neutral white.

She notices this in the corner of her eyes but keeps her head aloofly turned towards the barren scene past the window, unable to stop wondering about death and the man it took from her. In the reflection of the glass, she sees the silhouette of an elderly woman with graying hair tied up in a bun appear at the door. Despite her petite frame, the woman bears the presence of someone who has developed the strength to endure.

Her granddaughter has inherited a similar, stubborn tenacity in her sky-blue eyes. From the glass, she notices the spots of blood on her grandmother's surgery coat yet maintains an indifferent tone as she asks:

"How was it?"

Heaving a sigh of exhaustion and relief, the elderly lady replies: "He made it. It was close, but he made it."

The 22 year old only asked out of common courtesy as an employee. Whether that particular patient lived or died could not have matter less to her. In fact, perhaps she prefers that no one saved him at all.

"He lost his right arm and his left leg."

As the prosthetic engineer, she knows what her grandmother is implying when she says this. Yet she staunchly gives her answer before the request is asked, "No."

"Winry." Her grandmother says sternly. But her tone lacks admonishment, for the even with her old eyes, the woman can see the heartbreak in her granddaughter's eyes.

"Why should I?" The young woman sharply replies, turning her head to her senior. "Why should I help him?"

"You three were friends—

"He tried to kill himself, grandma. If he hated himself so much that he didn't even care to live anymore, then why should I bother with him? Besides, just because he had a heart transplant, doesn't mean he's going to have some miraculous change of heart. It's his fault—

"That's the past, Winry."

The unyielding tone in her grandmother's interruption silences her. There is a bitter aftertaste on her tongue—probably from the words that rolled off. She clamps her jaw before any more of the acrimony storming inside her chest escapes and burns her lips.

"Tomorrow morning, 0600 hours. Room B109." Her grandmother tells her.

Nurses' footsteps become more frequent as day begins in the hospital ward. Already there are sounds of new bullet wounds waiting to be treated. As a dedicated woman who rarely takes breaks, the elderly woman slides off her green surgeon's coat before heading towards the next patient.

Before leaving her granddaughter in her room, the woman softly speaks. "Winry, please try to give him a chance. People change."

A tuft of the young woman's blonde hair flows into the air from an unbelieving snort.

"You know, there's a story among doctors...They say that the spirits of organ donors guide the patients who receive their organ in times of need."

Left with these words, the young woman returns to staring at the window as the sounds of her grandmother's small feet melt into the bustled hurry of multiple footsteps.

What an odd day—instead of only seeing the gray of smoke, she can make out a thin, golden sunlight on the brink of the horizon.

* * *

_The sky was falling. _

_Glass shards were slicing through his leg as the ground below trembled and threatened to swallow him whole. The smoke from the crumbling building was stealing his breath. The flames were licking away at his skin and bones, eating him alive._

_But there was a piece of sunlit sky—an escape. _

_He turned to his companion—a blurry face. Giving a reassuring smile, he lifted the body onto his back and headed towards the exit of the inferno._

_Almost there. Almost there._

_Another earth-shattering impact ripped at his eardrums and threw him to the ground. The burning wooden frame of the ceiling was about to fall. That window of sky was disappearing fast—Hell was about to seal them in._

_On instinct, he pushed the body off him, thrusting it into the tiny gap left that guaranteed safety. _

_Before he can breathe out relief for saving a life, something explodes above him. A white flash overtakes him without warning. _

_And then he feels nothing._

_Nothing at all._

The sound of his yell saves him from absolute nothingness, bouncing off the walls and back into his ears. This loudness, along with a sudden shock that popped in his shoulder (mostly the latter), slams him back into consciousness rather ungraciously.

He jerks and sits up, panting as an icy bead of sweat trickles down his feverish forehead.

No searing cuts on his legs. No burning skin. The pain he felt left a trace only in his rapidly pounding heart.

He wonders if this room is some form of limbo between life and death. That explosion couldn't have been a nightmare—something in the pulsing of his heart tells him the hellish experience was very much real.

Limbo must be a hospital room then. For he recognizes the typical tile flooring and the white sheets of the bed he sits on.

Confusion sweeps over. That feeling of being absolutely vacant like air itself felt so authentic...he was certain that he had died. Yet the sound of electrocardiograms and the sight of IV bags strongly suggest that he is very much alive. And in one piece too—

Actually, he doesn't know that yet.

He peers down the bedside. Two legs underneath the covers, good. Then to the left. An arm good. Then to the right.

Instead of seeing peach-colored skin, his eyes widen at the sight of steel contraptions complexly bolted together, imitating the shape of his biceps, triceps, forearm, hands...all the way to his fingers.

His shaking left fingers feel the coldness of the metal in place of his right arm. Sheer shock chokes him and he realizes that he can't feel anything on his right side. Neither the soft breeze puffing on the curtains, nor the warmth of his own torso, nor pulse of veins guaranteeing human life...nothing. Nothing at all.

He can't feel fabric against his left leg either.

The bed sheets fly off as his left arm—the only arm he can move—rips them aside, only to have a silver prosthetic calf gleam in the light.

"W-w-what the...what the fuck did you do to me?"

Panic provides the strength in his voice as he addresses only other presence in the room: a figure bent over a cart with a long blonde ponytail covering his back—that is, he assumes that the person is a male based off the multitude of daunting mechanic's tools he is adjusting.

He wonders if he has lost his voice as well. For although he spoke, the figure placing a wrench back on the cart shows no sign of having heard anything at all.

"Oi. Oi! You!"

Finally, the blonde hair swings aside as the individual turns around and takes him aback.

A girl.

Although the baggy pants, plain-white cropped shirt, and combat boots are untasteful, her attire can not hide the feminine hips that her hands were placed on. The soft features of her face framed the fierce glare in her striking blue eyes.

"What?" She demanded.

Now made aware that he is conversing with a female, he attempts to speak more tactfully. Yet he is still unable to cast away the slight hysteria in his voice.

"I said: what the—what did you do?"

"What a great way to thank the person who gave you a good quarter of your mobility back."

If sarcasm could drip and ooze, he has just experienced it firsthand in that girl's voice. It is as if she has something personal against him, as if he has done something terribly wrong to her before. The stranger's no-nonsense tone calmed him in some odd way and he tried to collect his thoughts.

A quarter of himself was gone. He has a metal arm and a metal leg. He is in the hospital. He is...

Who is he?

There are whispers in the air, mouthing different names in his ears. The vowels and consonants clash, leaving him with an incredible headache.

"Oi..." He gritted through the pain.

"Now what?" She looked at him with impatient exasperation.

He forces the feeling of embarrassment down his throat as he asks, "Do you...do you happen to know my name?"

She opens her mouth as if to reply but only silence comes out. Thinking that it might be easier just to pretend that she never heard him, she continues to head towards the door. But even then, she can still see the gold eyes that showed such an uncharacteristic vulnerability—a softness that she once thought only belonged to _him_...

And because the young man behind her in pain reminds her so much of her loss, she can not help but look slightly over her shoulder. At the same time, she avoids looking directly at him, for fear of seeing the similarities of the man here and the man gone. With confusion constricting her throat, she replies quietly before leaving:

"Edward."

"Your name is Edward Elric."

* * *

**A/N: Hi FMA fans! This is my first FMA fic and I hope it goes well. I've primarily written Bleach fanfictions but I think it's always nice to broaden my horizons, right?**

**For those of you Bleach fans who have actually happened upon reading "Somewhere Only We Know", I wrote that as well, and yes, the heart-transplant concept is very much the same. Unfortunately, Somewhere Only We Know is on hiatus. But I have a very good idea of how this fanfic will turn out.**

**Anyways, please review if you can! **


	2. Wrenches over Wings

**Wrenches over Wings**

A hint of light shines through the plain window curtains, traveling through a simple bedroom with minimal furnishing. It lands on the torn photograph in her hands. Although it is turned over, memory allows her to see through the white back. She can remember the girl with short, blond hair. On her left is a boy who probably has a rambunctious grin had his face not been ripped out of the picture a year ago. On her left is golden-eyed boy with a shy smile, which reminds her of what happened that day she had ripped picture in the first place.

She shoves the photograph at the bottom of her drawer before her past becomes just as vivid in her chest as it is in her eyes. It is no use; no matter what she does, she is still just as torn and tattered as the picture.

Perhaps she will always be. And perhaps she wants it that way.

Pain seems to be the best solution to time—it helps retain her memories of _him _the best.

She looks up at the top of the drawer. A portrait photograph of a 20 year old man smiles back at her, broad shoulders turned ¾ away from the camera frame, eyes like calm, Sunday afternoons.

"_Sunday delivery."_

_The green cloth of her knotted bandanna twirled back in a circle when she turned from her machinery project to the familiar voice. Trying to wipe the gear oil off her face, a bright smile spread over her lips._

"_Al!"_

_The young man at the door held a large package filled with belts, nuts, bolts, and other materials. His white T-shirt was damp; at the tips of his gold-blonde hair hung tiny drops of rain from the drizzling weather outside. _

"_Can I set it here?" He motioned towards the wooden bench against one of the walls filled with wrenches, drills, and various contraptions hanging off hooks. Looking around the workshop interior, he smiled, "Working hard even on a Sunday. That's just like you, Winry."_

_Usually, she was too busy to care. But with Alphonse here, the smell of grease and strewn gears embarrassed her sometimes. She waved it off while removing her heavy gloves, "It's not a big deal—What's that?" _

_She stared at the red, tattered bandage wrapped around his bicep. He laughed sheepishly, "It was from patrolling. One of the guys started picking on an Ishbalan civilian and a fight started. So I tried to break it up—_

"_Al! You have to change the bandage if it's wet! How long have you been using it? The wound could get infested!" She scolded loudly and dug through one of her messes until she found the first aid kit._

"_Winry, it's just a cut. Don't worry—_

"_Sit!" She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him down onto the bench. Gingerly, she removed the cloth and dabbed anesthetic onto the wound. _

_He watched her tie the fresh bandage in a neat knot as she complained, "Jeez Al, stop getting into unnecessary fights! It's dangerous!" She walked back over to the desk and embarrassedly finished in her mind: __**and it worries me.**_

_But she knew he was only doing his job as a soldier. Him, and thousands of other men and women. Was it selfish of her to wish he wouldn't have to contribute to the war and let everyone else fight for him?_

"_Thanks, Winry. You're a lifesaver, you know." _

_It is his grin that took her aback. How could Al make her feel uncomfortable among screwdrivers and wrenches and other metal things that typically made her feel at home? Who knew that a smile could make her wish that she wasn't wearing a pair of baggy, worn jeans and could pull off a cute skirt like that petite nurse at the hospital?_

_She snorted in attempt to shake away the foreign feeling of self-consciousness, "Pft. What's up with that? Go tell that to one of the nurses like Catherine Elle, Al. I just do stuff with machines all day, why would anyone ever call me a lifesaver?"_

_ "I don't know. Maybe it's because your hair reminds me of the sun?" _

"_Wh-wh-what?!" As a reflex of embarrassment (if that was meant to be a compliment in the first place—because it certainly felt like one), she snatched a bolt (the wrench was the first thing she saw, but she decided against using it) and threw it with all her might at him. "Y-you don't just say that to a girl! Jeez Al!" _

_He dodged, laughing as she sputtered, leaving her speechless._

It is as if the absence of a single person can turn something golden into ash. The garage door of her workshop creaks as she pushes it up and is greeted by the smell of dusty abandonment. She tries tugging on the metal cord dangling from the ceiling, but the lightbulb flickers, then dies, leaving her to sit on a bench in the dark.

Watching a spider spin a web at the corner of her eye, she wonders at how just a year ago, she stood at the desk working away at some engine with an earnest grin. She used to get perhaps over ten visits from customers each day—Mrs. Hughes would give her a slice of fresh-baked pie in the mornings, someone friendly from the military like Mr. Havoc or Mr. Hughes would drop by with a project and a conversation, and then, of course, by the end of the day she would've expected to see _his_ smile.

But gone is the warm glow of business and left over is the ashes of economic downturn from a lost war. Now she spends her days by empty-eyed amputees in need of physical therapy, greeted with the frustration of ex-soldiers, grief of bombing victims...and crude ungratefulness.

The cobwebbed clock needle ticks to five over and over, but she knows she is expected at her new patient's room. She wishes that her photograph was still in tact, so she could rip that corner off all over again.

_Why should I? _She asks herself, tilting her head up as if waiting for an answer to dawn upon her. Better yet, maybe motivation to do anything at all could enter her as well.

A soft scoff escapes her lips.

But who would be able to help her? There is no one up there anyway.

"_You're a lifesaver, you know." _

Somehow, she musters the energy to get up and brush the dust off her pants, sighing as she headed towards the hospital.

* * *

"__! _! Come on! It's getting dark. Mom and Dad are going to worry." A boy's voice chastised._

"_But...what about him? He looks lonely." The cat mewed softly as he petted it gingerly and stared worriedly at its jutting rib cage. "Can we bring him home?"_

"_No. It's not safe. It might have fleas or something." _

"_But...he's hungry. We can't leave him if he's hungry."_

"_And I'm hungry too. Stop worrying about it and worry about yourself—_

"__! Are you bullying _ again?!" A girl's voice interrupted._

"_No! Go home Flat-chest! You're a boy and no one will ever marry you!"_

"_Shorty!"_

"_Flat-chest!"_

"_Shorty!"_

_Repeated insults flew between his brother and his neighbor from behind him. Although he wished they would get along, he was accustomed to it. He continued to pet the stray cat._

"_Ouch!" Tiny beads of red welled up on his finger that the cat bit._

"__!" A girl runs over and kneels by him._

"_I told you that it wasn't safe!" His brother interjected._

"_Shut up, Shorty! You're the son of midgets and adopted!" She yelled back and then turned to him, "Are you okay?"_

"_Yes. Thank you." He smiled and accepted the band-aid she offered. "I think he's hungry, that's all."_

"_Oh! I know!" She runs over and victoriously wrestles for his brother's lunchbox. "Ha! I knew it! You never drink your milk!"_

"_Whatever Flat-chest! Milk is gross!"_

"_But big brother, you should. Mom says it's good for you." He good-naturedly advised._

"_Wait! Don't tell on me, alright _?" _

"_Okay big brother, I pro—_

"_Maybe _ won't, but I will." The girl deviously teased. She patted the top of his brother's head, and left him fuming in the background._

"_Here you go." She tore off the top of the milk carton and placed it before the cat._

_They watched its tiny pink tongue lap up with liquid and then turned to each other with grins._

_(No matter how hard he tried, he could only see faint facial expressions on silhouettes—childrens' shadows talking to him in the sunset. But he thought that when she tilted her head to meet his smile, he had caught sight of a strand of gold.)_

He wishes that eyelids came with a lifetime warrantee; because if they did he would ship the ones he has now right off to get new ones that can actually shut out the unforgiving flood of light.

"Just a few minutes." He grumbles.

"Get up."

The callous voice causes him to give up his attempts to fight off the sudden brightness stabbing his sight. He squints at the window and sees instead a figure looming over him, completely black against the sheer white.

"Lucifer, is that you? I'm ready for death now." He mumbles.

"Did you just call me the Devil?" She takes his gold ponytail and yanks upwards.

"Holy shit, woman! Okay, okay, I resign! I'm up! I'm up!"

She lets go and allows him to grimace in pain.

"What are you doing here anyway? Aren't nurses supposed to be nice?" He asks, ticked off at the fact that his scalp feels as if it's burning.

"Do I look like a nurse to you?"

He observes her worn jeans and oversized t-shirt. "Yeah, you really don't fit the stereotype of a pretty nurse."

She ignores him and sets a plate of eggs and toast on a nightstand to his right. Then she slaps a fork near his prosthetic hand.

He is about to use his left hand when he finds that his arm is chained down to the bedside with a pair of handcuffs.

"What the _fuck_ is this?! What are you—a sadist?!"

"What do you mean?" She stares coldly at him.

"Don't fuck with me. You know what I mean. Why is my fucking arm chained down? How do you expect me to eat?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe your _other _arm?" She sarcastically pointed out and headed towards the door.

"I can't even move this piece of shit glued on my fucking arm! What kind of hospital is this? Do you even work here, you crazy bitch?"

She gives one last look at this young man with long, gold hair in his pathetic, selfish self-pity. His ignorance, his callousness—she hates him, every inch of him, no matter how similar he is in appearance to _him_. She decides to leave before she can not resist the temptation to rip his prosthetics off and leave him crippled forever.

"I'm the crazy bitch that's your physical therapist" She replied, "and that shit is AL-6XN steel—24% nickel, 6.3% molybdenum."

* * *

_Nickle and molyshitwhatmadehimnumb? _

His stomach gnawed as his eyes remained glued on the breakfast—a solid, non-liquid-through-tubes food he hasn't had in days. He bets that it is most likely cold by now—how long has it been, 20 minutes? He tells himself that he doesn't want cold eggs anyway. And if he isn't able to move in the next hour...

That woman wouldn't be so crazy as to let him starve to death here in a hospital, right?

Now it isn't even any growling. His own body is about to eat him alive silently.

He cursed the woman for the shitty-ass job she did on him.

It dawns upon him that he is with this nick-molyshitnumb arm and leg for life; like some arranged marriage without the divorce option. And he is the useless groom who can't even grab a fork.

The concept of a grown man being unable to feed himself seems worthy of sympathy but because that grown man is himself it is disgusting. He might as well be breast-fed. But babies can crawl—he can't even do that.

_Move. Move. Move._

He cursed it. Pleaded it. Prayed to it.

The metal wouldn't move. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. At least, he hopes it is sweat and not tears because that would make him hate himself even more as he slips into darkness from fatigue of concentration.

"_Big brother! Come down!"_

"_No!"_

"_But, we're going to be late for school!"_

"_Th-there still more apples up here!" _

"_What are you two doing?" _

_He turned to the blurry image of a girl with gold-blonde hair and then looked back up at the tree, "I saw apples and big brother said he would pick them himself because the doctor said I shouldn't do anything too physical this week. But now he won't come back down."_

"_Hmmm...ah." She grinned deviously and yelled up at the tangle of limbs wrapped tightly around a branch, "Shorty, you're scared of heights aren't you?"_

"_What?! No! Am not!"_

_She laughed, "When you're short, everything looks higher doesn't it?"_

"_Shut up! Shut up Flat-chest!"_

"_Big brother, it's okay, just down look down and climb down."_

"_No!"_

"_But we have to go to school!"_

"_I...I'm not going to school! I'll just stay here!"_

"_Big brother..." He looked up and then started to panic. He asked the girl next to him, "What do we do, _? What if he never comes down? What if no one can get him down?" _

_She seemed to search his eyes and finally sighed. "Fine."_

_She climbed her way up tree and offered a hand to the other boy in the leaves. _

_He turned his head the other way, "No way. You're going to let me fall, evil Flat-chest."_

"__. Just trust me." She looked him directly in the eyes._

"_Are you crazy? Do you know how much distance there is from here to the ground?"_

"_Stop focusing on the things that you can't help and focus on what you __**can **__do, _! Just one step at a time!" _

_(Even if he couldn't see her, he could tell from her clear, promising voice that she had a bright smile on her face—one that he wished he could've seen as he watched her come down with his brother)_

One by one, his fingers curled in.

* * *

She finds the plate completely emptied when the clock in the room reads 6 PM. It took him 10 hours.

He sleeps carelessly with the fork still in his right hand and a carefree grin on his face, a boyish expression that makes him look as he is dreaming of puppies. It looks rather sloppy and undignified, but she can't frown. She wonders if all people are erased of their sins while they sleep.

She takes her toolbox and sits on the bed, checking over the status of his prosthetic. When she turns to grab another tool, she notices that the glass of milk is still untouched. That's not surprising to her, since picking it up would've required him to adjust to a different grip and use another set of his mechanical muscles.

_Or does he still hate milk...?_

She almost laughs but catches herself.

Somewhere in between dreams and reality, he hears a soft snort. A sound so familiar that he thinks he has heard it so many times growing up. There is a name on the tip of his tongue. One that he has called when walking to school past the apple tree near the bridge...at his neighbor's house when sent on an errand...at a mechanic's shop faintly scented of gasoline...

"Winry."

He is unsure whether he is really awake. Still lost somewhere in tiredness, he thinks he opens his eyes and sees a young woman watching over him—some sort of odd angel who traded wings and a halo for an oversized T-shirt and a wrench.

He wonders why her face is one of incredulous fright.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the wait! As always, I appreciate reviews!**


	3. Unbirthday

**Unbirthday**

She suspects that her footsteps are loud enough to disrupt the patients and that a nurse will scold her sometime soon as she walks down the hospital hall, but right now the heart-pounding was deafening her ears.

"_Winry_._"_

"_Winry...Good work today..."_

_She smiled at hearing his nearly unintelligible words. She had found him by the garage door, sitting against the wall outside of her workshop. His peaceful breaths were in concert with the chirp of the crickets as he slept underneath the summer night sky. _

_She wondered how long he had been waiting for him. The faint, boyish smile on his expression made her hesitant to wake him up so that he could walk home, despite the fact that she knew he had to leave before dawn in order to report to his first day of training as a soldier. Noticing his dust-soiled T-shirt and slightly sweat-grimed face, she sighed. Although the doctor warned that his condition would only worsen with physical overexertion, he still spent all day shaping up in preparation. Even when she had caught him once having trouble with his breathing, he only smiled and told her in a hoarse voice: "I'm alright. I just need to get stronger, that's all. Don't worry about me." _

_From this angle, she could notice that he was stronger, with the way the faint moonlight shone on short blonde hair, down his neck and to his toned arms..._

_She shook her head and slapped herself in the face lightly, feeling her warm cheeks. Grabbing a blanket, she sat beside him and wrapped a blanket around the two of them. By the side of his slightly-slender build, she allowed the rise and fall of his breath become her lullaby. She was lulled to dreams with a smile; the last sound she heard was his sleepy murmur:_

"_Winry."_

"_Winry."_

Impossible. They were two different people.

Impossible.

She slams her hand on the pharmacy department's desk. The young intern squeaks in surprise.

"I thought the pills were supposed to work." She seethes.

"E-e-excuse me, Ms. Rockbell?"

"The pills! Edward Elric's pills!"

Anxious that her loud voice would upset others in the lobby and get him removed from his job, he tries to calm her down. "The memory suppressants? We administer them every afternoon—

"Well, they're not working, so you guys better do something about it." She brusquely cut him off and left, hoping her stormy trail would mask the confusion churning inside her.

* * *

_Little pieces of rock and dirt pierced his knee, stained red from the blood flowing from the scrapes. He watched—unsure whether picking the sharp grains out would be painful. With dirt-stained hands and face from the fall, he sat as his classmates ran past him._

"__! Are you okay!?" _

"_I'm okay, _." He smiled between slight wheezing—he knew he wasn't a good runner but racing with everyone else seemed like a fun idea at the time. _

"_No you're not! Your knee is bleeding!" _

"_You should go; you're going to fall behind." He replied. The girl bent over in front of him was a fast runner and he didn't want her to stop for him._

"_No way! I'm staying with you!" She held out her hand, "Come on! I'll go with you to the nurse!"_

_Cheering erupted ahead of them in the school yard. _

"__! _! Look guys! Look!" _

_A boy ran towards them, holding a large, gold medallion hung around his neck._

"_Wow! Big brother! Good job!" He complimented._

_A grin spread across his brother's face. "I know, right?"_

"_Whatever." The girl turned and ignored the grinning boy._

"_You're just jealous. I won the race and you didn't." He smugly teased._

"_Who cares? _ fell and I stopped to help him!" She shot back._

"__...it's okay. I'm okay, really..." He meekly insisted, sensing another fight between his two closest friends once again._

"_No, it's not! The doctor said it's not good for you to bleed!" _

"_Are you okay?" His brother looked down at the ground and scratched his head guiltily. Then, he removed the medal from his neck and held it out before him, "Here. You can have it." _

"_Wow! Really, big brother? Thanks!" He smiled at his brother's kindness._

"_You still didn't stop to help _." She scowled._

"_So what? I got him the medal." He retorted._

_The two helped him up. Together, they walked towards the school building. His brother and his neighbor pelted arguments at each other from both sides._

"_You're a sucky brother."_

"_You're a boy and no one likes you."_

"_Stupid midget brother."_

"_Dumb boy."_

"_Midget brother."_

"Edward?"

"Edward?"

Blurred, kaleidoscope colors settle in place as the voice burns away the fuzzy images and muffled voices occupying his mind. He blinks and stares at the woman across the desk before him.

"Edward, how are you feeling today?"

He would laugh at this stereotypical question if his head wasn't hurting so much. Instead, he rests an elbow on the arm of his wheelchair, shuts his eyes, and squeezes the bridge of his nose, "Like jumping of a cliff."

"And why is that?"

Now he is just pissed off at the droning calmness in her voice, "I dunno. Maybe because Satan will give a shit about privacy and not interrupt my damn thoughts."

Pen scratches on a notepad.

"What were you thinking about?"

He opens an eye and sighs, becoming increasingly irritated with each tick of the clock on the wall. Making the conscious choice not to inform the psychiatrist about the dreams about the same people that reoccurr both day and night, he dryly answers:

"Whether the company in Hell is better than the crazy, fucked up hole here."

"I see." She notes,, "Edward, why do you assume that you're going to Hell?"

A sharp pain hammered the back of his head. Further aggravated by her irrelevant question, he decides to ask her the questions instead. "Why the fuck am I here?"

"It depends what you would like to take from this."

"Look lady, the only things I need are my arm and my leg. Some shrink isn't going to help me with that."

"And what about your memories? Do you remember anything?"

He snorts, "Come on. Don't you have better things to bother with? I'm sure you've noticed, but I'm not like your other patients. I'm normal."

"What makes you believe that you're different?"

A girl's shriek tears through the hall, followed by a crash of plates and the heels of frantic nurses.

He turns and observes the black-haired, young woman in a hospital gown run into the hall holding a bowl of porridge.

"Ling! Ling!"

"Sheska! You gave the tray to the wrong patient!" One nurse yells.

"Sorry!" Another squeaks

As they attempt to restrain the thrashing patient, he looks back at the psychiatrist.

"What makes me think I'm different?" He cynically smirks, "Well, for starters, I don't flip shit over rice."

* * *

"Hey, new guy! There's space for you over here!" The dark-haired man with glasses cheerfully scoots his chair over.

Edward's eye twitches at the sight of the empty space, a reminder of the wheelchair he is confined to.

"Thank you, Mr. Hughes. Wasn't that nice of him, Edward?" The nurse says as she pushes him towards the space.

In order to avoid contact with the circle of curious eyes, he stubbornly stared at the clock on the wall.

"Are we all here now? Good." The psychiatrist he met earlier in the day says from one of the chairs. "As you all see, we have a new member with us now. So how about we all introduce ourselves going clockwise?"

This is worse than kindergarten, where kids sat in circles picking their noses, daring each other to lick the soles of their shoes and whatnot. There are grown adults staring at him with large eyes as if they have never seen a human before. Others hardly seem present with their vapid, colorless expressions. One man ceases to twitch and his jerked movements fill the silence with the uncomfortable sound of chair legs hitting the floor. And the man next to him grins obnoxiously like a five year old.

He doesn't bother trying to remember any of their names, but he does hear a few out of the series of introductions.

"Riza Hawkeye."

Besides the fact that she seems as if she has never learned how to smile, the woman with blonde hair appears fairly normal.

"Shou Tucker."

The way the light gleams off his glasses gives him a creepy aura. He guesses that he was probably some sort of child molester.

"Lan Fan."

The Asian girl who freaked out about rice this morning. Great, he is being grouped with a person who has rice-phobia.

He decides that he would rather not disclose his identity to these people. So he says with a straight face, "My name is Dudley Smellie and I have a problem with women."

He catches the disapproval on the psychiatrist's face before she can mask it with her typical, plastic-pleasant expression. Encouraged, he continues:

"I have a fear of women and I'm here to overcome it so I can lose my virginity." He meets the woman's look with a challenging smirk.

"I understand how you feel! I used to be in your position!" The man next to him throws his head back in a loud laugh and puts a strong arm around his shoulder, "Women are so complicated. I never had a lot of luck with them either. But don't worry kid, someday you'll find someone, just like how I met my Gracia."

"By the way, I'm Maes. Maes Hughes. Thirty-five and married with a daughter. Her name is Elicia. She puts all the other girls in the world to shame with her adorableness. Look, I'm right, right? She's adorable."

Trapped in one of Hughe's arms, he is stuck with a photograph of a young girl pressed to this nose. The man shows no signs of pausing in his boasts about his family, leaving Edward no opportunity to tell him how much he doesn't give a damn.

Without his right arm to push Hughes off, he can only give a futile glare. And without his left leg, he has no choice but to sit through this man's thunderous laughs, each of which increasingly ticks him off.

"Hey, kid, how old are you?"

"Twenty two." He is too exhausted by Hughe's rambunctiousness to bother with lying. Plus, the prank that he tried to pull off clearly didn't do him any good in buying him solitude.

But apparently nothing will, because the tears started to fall rapidly down the Asian girl's brown eyes.

"Twenty two? You're twenty two?"

He stares at her incredulously. Is she afraid of certain numbers as well?

"Ling is twenty two. He turns twenty three today. Today is his birthday..." Her constricted voice breaks into hiccupped sobs.

As the blonde woman and the psychiatrist try comforting her, Maes smiles good naturedly and says across the circle, "Hey Lan Fan, don't cry. Here, we can all sing Happy Birthday for Ling!"

So in one ear he hears the off-key singing of an annoyingly cheerful eccentric and in the other ear he hears the inconsolable sobbing of an unstable psychotic.

Hell must be a better option after all.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the wait! I know it's a short chapter. I was about to combine two chapters, but it just didn't feel right to me since then it would seem so long and rushed.**

**Please review :)**


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